


Aiming for the Sky

by fictorium



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Babies, F/F, Kid Fic, Mystery Kids, Secret Relationship, gal pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy and Angie acquire a pair of babies after secretly dating and living together for quite a while. It's time for a capital-d Discussion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aiming for the Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ratherembarrassing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherembarrassing/gifts).



> (The title is taken from Hamilton, because fuck me up, that's why.)

Peggy’s first thought, well, her first clear thought after the smoke clears and the ringing in her ears dulls enough for her to think, is _Angie_. Living together has made Peggy lax in her protective duties, and sleeping together has distracted her even further. Why else would she allow Angie to wait in the car while Peggy investigated a potential HYDRA laboratory?

The building left standing, mostly, is a rabbit warren of corridors and rooms-within-rooms that will take the SSR days to explore. Howard’s notion of forming a new, streamlined agency is looking more appealing by the day. Experts only, leaders in their field that want to push the boundaries. Rewarding patriots will always be a part of any work Peggy takes on but right now the military boys’ club of the SSR is chafing more than ever. Not least when lesser-qualified men elbow her aside at every opportunity. 

She’s beginning to regret ever returning, especially on nights like these, nights when she could have stayed to get dessert after a perfectly delicious meal with Angie. They frequent almost any restaurant they like these days, safe in the knowledge that they’ll be taken for gal pals, never doing more than brushing hands beneath the linen. Anything more brazen requires a discreet club, and Peggy has the location of the few scattered across Manhattan firmly memorized.

She wriggles free of the bumbling medic, knowing she can patch up most of the damage herself by now. She might even tell Angie about the concussion this time, since her method of waking Peggy for regular checks is rather more fun than a shout or a shake. It’s on that thought that Peggy reaches the car, her stomach sinking at the sight of it empty. If some escaping HYDRA agent has gone after Angie, Peggy will never forgive herself. Even after tearing the hapless monster limb from limb.

Just as places her fingers at the corners of her mouth to whistle sharply for quick assistance, she notices a slight figure emerging from the waning smoke at the far end of the building, some kind of extension that hadn’t been marked as relevant or helpful by the recon team. Peggy’s heart skips as she recognizes that determined stride, and it’s only as she’s rushing across the street to meet her love that she notices Angie is distinctly not alone. 

“Angie?” She calls, wondering just what in the hell is going on.

“Hey,” Angie answers softly, so as not to wake the swaddled baby in her arms. No, Peggy reassesses the data presented and confirms those are two separate bundles, judging by the way Angie’s elbows are jutting out and she’s straining slightly from the exertion of holding them both correctly.

“Are they…?” Peggy isn’t sure what she’s asking. She knows which answer she couldn’t bear, but Angie’s eyes are soft and smiling when she looks up at her. 

“When you and the troops broke in, I heard the crying. You never said these places took kids, English. Why wouldn’t you go get them first?”

“I didn’t know,” Peggy admits, although it’s certainly not unheard of. Mostly HYDRA’s experiments of that nature are behind the Iron Curtain, it’s a bold move to be attempting it on American soil. Although New York, sadly, probably has more than its share of children who aren’t missed, or missed enough, when they’re taken in the dark of night. “We should take them to someone. I don’t honestly know what we do in this instance, but there’ll be a division somewhere. Nurses, perhaps?”

“You mean they’ll be passed around like old paperwork? That can’t be right.”

“It’s not something I’ve ever dealt with, darling. I’m sure Social Services will be called, or something appropriate like that.”

“Oh, like hell!” Angie is livid, but keeping her voice down as the bundles appear, somewhat miraculously, to actually be sleeping. “I’m taking them home tonight. You square that with your bosses, Peg, or so help me… There might be parents somewhere missing these little ones, I grabbed the papers by their cribs and uh, shoved them…”

“Angie, are you telling me crucial evidence is currently wedged into your lingerie?” Peggy should know better than to be surprised at anything her firecracker of a girlfriend will do by now. “Because the last thing I want to do is bring you in for questioning.”

“We’re taking care of the kids while you use the papers to track down their real families. I bet they’d expect you to take them anyway, being the only woman and all.”

Peggy sighs. Angie, unfortunately, has a point. She definitely won’t get anyone else to step in this late on a Saturday night, unless by some miracle another agent volunteers his wife. 

“I’ll have to tell Thompson,” Peggy relents, feeling very much like she might be surrendering more than this one particular argument. “I don’t suppose they come with supplies?”

“I was thinking your fancy friend could help us there?” Angie suggests. “Only he seems at a bit of a loose end since you started doing all your own driving.”

“Right,” Peggy moves closer, laying her forearms out like she’s helping to fold sheets. Angie shakes her head and sighs softly.

“I might have known, English. Take him, here. Just like grabbing a football, I promise.”

“Which kind of football?” Peggy isn’t really comfortable with either.

“Rugby kind,” Angie says with a grin. “There you go, now just hold him nice and close. You can call your boss later, right?”

“Get in the car,” Peggy says, trying desperately not to look down at the little person, a boy apparently, squirming in her fearful grip. “You’ll have to juggle both again while I’m driving.”

***

“There are seven bedrooms in this apartment,” Peggy says from the doorway. “Even allowing for the one we pretend you’re still using and the room of clothes that neither of us has seen fit to fold and put away, that leaves plenty.”

“Well I’m not putting them in the one where you’ve got weapons stashed inside the books, am I?” Angie doesn’t look up from where she’s doing something sailor-worthy with some nappy knots. “Besides, little ones this young shouldn’t be sleeping alone yet. These suitcases make perfectly good cribs.”

“There’s always the drawers,” Peggy drawls.

“Too shallow,” Angie fires right back. “You know, you could lend a hand here, Peggy Carter. The messy bit is over and done with. Save for washing those,” Angie nods to a bucket that probably explains the unpleasant odor in their bedroom. 

“You wanted me to find the parents,” Peggy reminds her, brandishing the creased paperwork she didn’t even get to have fun taking out of Angie’s dress. There had been a moment, of course, but caterwauling children proved to be instant mood-killers. “I just wanted to check you were coping before I started making some calls.”

“Coping? I’ve juggled more kids than this for weeks at a time. Professional babysitter, remember? And every time someone pops out a new one, guess who stepped in to manage the existing brood.”

“You’re very capable,” Peggy teases. “It looks good on you.”

“I sorta hoped it might look good on you too,” Angie admits, wiping her hands with a cloth and crossing the room to stand with Peggy in the doorway. “I’d say you’re treating them like tiny bombs, except I know my girl doesn’t run away from bombs. What are you scared of? That we might like it?”

“I…” Peggy knows it’s too soon for this conversation, too dark and difficult a night to raise the specter of the future. At the same time, she’s never been very good at lying to Angie. Not in any way that Angie ever takes notice of, anyway. “It doesn’t matter if we like it or not, darling. These children belong to someone, hopefully someone who can still claim them. If not? There are procedures for this kind of thing.”

Angie retreats back into the room, doing a bad job of masking her sudden upset. She looks about two serious frowns away from crying, and Peggy is at a loss. 

“Angie?” Peggy gives her the minute to gather herself, but it seems a bad note to part on. 

“Go find them,” Angie says, voice tight. “Go find where we can offload these two innocent souls who didn’t ask for any of this, and get back to fancy dinners and dancing whenever you happen to be in town. Give it a few months, maybe we won’t even remember them.”

“But-”

“It’s fine, okay? I just don’t like it when you go all frosty. Still, I’ll get over it. You get on with your sleuthing, Sherlock. Me and the babies are just fine by ourselves.”

“If you’re sure,” Peggy replies, but she’s already turning away. It’s fleeing, plain and simple. She picks the farthest room from their bedroom, the ornate lounge that doesn’t contain one comfortable chair. Perhaps flattened buttocks are a suitable punishment for upsetting Angie. Peggy sighs, and lays the papers out neatly on the coffee table. 

None of them stay neat for very long.

***

Peggy is just passing in search of more tea when she hears the first cry. Peeking round the door, she sees Angie collapsed on top of the sheets, snoring lightly. The nearest baby, the girl on closer inspection, is the one fussing. Peggy considers a moment, and decides ultimately that the temporary sacrifice is worth letting Angie rest. It might also avoid another awkward conversation.

She picks the baby up quite easily this time, and the squalling stops almost the moment the little head is resting against Peggy’s shoulder. Her jacket is long since discarded, and she tries not to think what tears and baby snot will do to her blouse. Jarvis knows how to get motor oil and blood out though, so the damage shouldn’t be permanent. 

Grasping little fingers are trying to burrow through the blouse, Peggy realizes a moment later. It’s the insistent kneading of a pup or kitten, intent on one goal. That is one facility even the SSR and Jarvis combined can’t equip her with, so Peggy opts for an escape to the kitchen. She has some fundamental knowledge of how a bottle should be made, and the cowardly delivery Jarvis made earlier has some necessary supplies lined up. He left the box just inside the front door, not dallying to see the little bundles of joy. Peggy hadn’t taken him for squeamish on the subject, so she’ll get to the bottom of that at some point.

Working one-handed isn’t easy, but she’s used to it from completing too many tasks while training a gun on someone. The Carnation milk has the instructions right on the tin, and Peggy measures by eye. The corn syrup seems an unnecessary American addition, and so she leaves the bottle of Karo untouched. Testing the finished drink through the rubber teat, Peggy finds it sickly but perfectly milk-like. The fussing child certainly agrees, sucking hungrily the minute the bottle is presented.

Well. Peggy takes a seat and helps to balance the rapidly emptying bottle. That wasn’t so very difficult. When the rate of ingestion finally tapers off, she sets the glass on the kitchen table and really looks at the little thing for the first time. Dark eyes, much like Peggy’s own, although the hair is darker and straighter, the skin definitely a shade or two darker than her own English pallor. Happy burbling noises are rumbling from tiny pink lips, the faint traces of milk damp against the skin. Caught up despite herself, Peggy knows that some form of burping comes next. She puts the child into an approximation of the right position and takes cautious steps back and forth the kitchen floor.

When nothing happens, Peggy finds a tune on her lips. She surrenders to it, her voice croaky and as tuneless as ever, but the song demands she sing it regardless. “ _That certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air_ ” Almost on cue, the little girl brings up a small torrent of milk down Peggy’s back. A towel, she considers too late. A towel would have helped tremendously. Undeterred, she continues her serenade. The sooner the child sleeps, the sooner Peggy can change and get back to work. “ _There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square._ ”

“Hey,” Angie says from the kitchen doorway, holding the little boy. “Don’t be teaching her bad habits now. That’s not how the good people of California pronounce it.”

“This is no time to start caring what California thinks,” Peggy huffs, embarrassed to be caught behaving like such a sentimental fool. “If you heat the rest of the water in the pan, there’s enough for his bottle too.”

“I was right,” Angie says, crossing to the stove and doing exactly as Peggy suggested, the boy cuddled close to her the whole time. 

“About what?”

“It does look good on you.”

“Angie.” It’s a warning, Peggy realizes. She doesn’t want to know what comes next.

***

Angie’s mother, Francesca, is waiting in the kitchen when Peggy gets home the following Friday. It’s been a long, exhausting week, culminating in what Peggy can only see as a tragic failure. She has to tell Angie tonight that the children, twins in fact, were stolen from the car wreck that claimed their parents’ lives. At best guess it was the work of the HYDRA agents they captured at the weekend, none of whom are giving reasons for having children in their facility at all. Peggy can’t shake the image of little girls handcuffing themselves to the bedposts, each time it makes her shudder from somewhere bone deep.

“Francesca,” Peggy greets her as warmly as she can muster. “Angie didn’t mention you were coming. I’m afraid you’ll have to take me as you find me this evening.”

“She’s in the shower,” Francesca explains, her foot gently jostling the pram that contains both babies. She’s a natural grandmother, but from the family history Peggy is privy to, Angie has made no mention of her siblings settling down or producing the next generation of Martinellis. “Little fella here likes to go projectile after some milk.”

“Ah.”

“You can sit, Peggy. You know by now I don’t bite.”

Peggy does as she’s told, springing up a moment later to pop the kettle on the stove, before sitting again. She steeples her fingers above the checkered tablecloth, and waits for whatever Francesca needs to say, whatever unspoken words are making the air hang so heavily around both of them.

“Angie hasn’t told me, I want you to know that. But you girls come for dinner often enough. Okay, maybe not often enough but still. I see the care you take with her. How you start to put your hand at her back on the stairs, but you catch yourself just in time. That secret little smile you both have-”

“Francesca, please-”

“It’s okay,” Francesca continues, waving Peggy’s protests aside. “Not okay, exactly, but I think I understand. I worry that the world doesn’t understand, but I know if you’re even slightly like my girl there isn’t a word I can say to change either one of your minds.”

“I’m sorry,” Peggy admits. She is, truly. To drag Angie into this difficult world of shadows and half-truths has been bearable when treated as an interlude, a game to play until one or both of them sees sense. Now there are parents and abandoned children, and it seems like every new player on the board is forcing Peggy into a gambit she doesn’t dare admit she wants to play. “I didn’t enter into this lightly. She’s just…”

“She’s some girl, my Angela,” Francesca agrees. “But you have to see that five days with these little beauties is tearing her apart. She wants this life, with you in some way or another, is my best guess. Only she’s scared to say a word about it, because she assumes you don’t. If you wanted some conventional life, she just told me, you’d be married to a nice guy by now.”

“I’ve been accused of many things, but being conventional isn’t one of them,” Peggy bristles, even as her heart plummets at the thought of Angie upset. This habit of not saying too much, of giving away no more than is absolutely necessary. and hoping that looks and touch will say it for her, is perhaps Peggy’s greatest failing. She wants to storm into the bathroom now and tell Angie everything that is kept submerged, but there’s enough damage done without that impropriety right now.

“I’m going to make you girls dinner,” Francesca announces. “It’s gonna take at least an hour, and the kids will sleep right through. Unless you need to take them somewhere now…?”

Peggy shakes her head.

“Then why don’t you take the time to change and catch up with Angela, hmm? I’ll be right out here if you need me.”

***

“Darling?” Peggy enters the bedroom to find Angie sitting at the dressing table, wrapped in a towel. Her hair is towelled dry but still dripping occasionally onto her bare shoulders. Peggy’s breath catches in her throat at the sight, overcome with the urge to press her mouth where those droplets land. “Your mother is here.” It’s the closest she can come to gathering herself.

“I knew that before I showered,” Angie answers, still staring at herself in the mirror. “You’re taking them back, aren’t you?”

“Angie-”

“I tried so hard not to get attached, I swear,” Angie groans. “I think that’s why Ma came. I called her to complain because it was so hard not to call them by names, you know? All this baby boy and baby girl, it was making me crazy.” She stands then, gathering herself with a deep breath and facing down Peggy. “Tell me you found their parents. Tell me they’re going home.”

Peggy knows a lie would be kinder here. It’s her first temptation, the spy’s preference for a neat and happy ending that no one will ever disprove. She considers Angie, considers the weight in her chest of love unexpressed and makes her decision, makes her commitment.

“They’re gone, I’m afraid. The poor dears should really be handed back to Social Services.”

Angie doesn’t scream, but it looks very much like she wants to. Instead she wraps her arms tightly around herself, and closes her eyes. 

“I love them,” she admits a moment later, a whisper cutting the air in the room. “I love them, and I love you, and for just a goddamned moment I let myself imagine that this might be the latest crazy development in what is turning out to be a pretty crazy couple of years.”

“Angie-”

“I didn’t want to hope that when Howard offered us this love shack that anything would ever happen, and then six weeks in you’re bruised and trying to hide it. What was I gonna do, English? Pretend I wasn’t already gone on you? And this year or so, these nights and the trips in the car, and you sitting opposite me at Ma’s like a husband would… I was so careful not to get carried away.”

“Me too,” Peggy tells her at last, and now they’re inches apart, and Peggy’s hands grip Angie’s arms as tightly as her own fingers. “I’ve been so terrified. I thought to love you was to rob you of a future, and that’s the last thing I would ever do, Angie. The very last thing.”

She tries to emphasize the truth of it with a kiss, pressing firmly with her mouth against Angie’s, asking no more than the pressure returned. Their combined sigh fades in the lack of space between them, and Peggy wraps her arms fully around Angie the moment the kiss ends.

“Then I saw you being a mother to those orphaned children. I saw all that love and devotion and nobody even asked you to provide it. That’s the woman I am hopelessly in love with, and I am so sorry I couldn’t bring myself to tell you that until now.”

“You mutter it all the time in your sleep,” Angie teases against Peggy’s shoulder. “I just didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“Did you at least say it back?”

“Of course I did, you idiot,” Angie scoffs. “You think I put out for any pretty dame with a killer hat collection? Come on, now.”

“Which reminds me,” Peggy leans back just enough to be able to look at her girlfriend. “Your mother apparently knows about us.”

“Oh God,” Angie groans, burying her face in Peggy’s blue jacket once more. “No way I’m going back out there.”

“Now, about the children.” Peggy has to do this before the courage deserts her. “You said you named them?”

“Not out loud,” Angie is fighting tears again, but she lets Peggy lead her to sit on the edge of the bed, and they face each other in the soft evening light. “Did you find their full names? It was all blacked out on the papers I saw.”

“They were on the way home from hospital we think,” Peggy informs her. “They’re only registered as Baby Boy and Baby Girl Greene.”

“That’s so sad,” Angie complains. “Those poor people probably thought they had all the time in the world.”

“If we could,” Peggy continues after an appropriate interval. “It wouldn’t make us officially family, not really, but I did ask a very helpful administrator how a single woman could adopt a child in the current climate. It’s not guaranteed, and we might find out something later that prevents this from happening, but is that ultimately what you’d like?”

“Peggy Carter!”

“What?”

“I knew you were falling under their spell too! I just knew it! Is it really possible?”

“Only because of my job,” Peggy admits. “We have ways of legitimizing things that wouldn’t otherwise fly, legally speaking. But I know what it’s like to find yourself all alone in this world, and there are enough children in overcrowded orphanages as it is. Perhaps we were meant to find these two. And I can’t ask you to marry me, or anything so formal, but perhaps this will also show you how permanent I want this thing between us to be. Now that I realize I won’t lose you for telling you so.”

“You are a prize fool for waiting so long,” Angie sighs. “And I don’t know it’ll be as easy as us just taking on the kids and nobody ever asking questions.”

“We’re of age with a generation of war widows,” Peggy points out. “Two single mothers teaming up to share the costs of living won’t seem so strange now. We’ll make sure it doesn’t.”

“I’d like it better if we could be a family the way we really will be, and to hell with anyone who looks at it funny.”

“Maybe, one day. The world keeps changing, Angie. We’re lucky to be alive to see just how much.”

“I’m game if you are, English. Although you better let me explain to Ma instead of you,” Angie leans in this time, kissing Peggy with brand new fervour. “You’ll make a great Mom, you know.”

“You will,” Peggy counters. “I’m afraid I’ll be a perfect disaster, but I can provide as well as any father. That’s somewhere to start, isn’t it?”

“Sounds like a role for the great Angela Martinelli,” Angie confirms. “We’ll bring the house down every night, I swear. You’re not just doing this to stop me moping all month?”

“That was my first concern, and while I’m not sure I’m much to offer a child, being with you makes me want to try.” Peggy strokes Angie’s cheek with her thumb. “Now, as delightful as you look, why don’t you get dressed and we’ll face your mother together?”

“When do we start? You know, officially?”

“The paperwork will be drawn up on Monday. You can choose which one will be officially yours, of course. Though they both will be equally loved, I’m sure.”

Angie squeals, pure joy after a worrying and difficult week. “I was thinking Diana, for the little lady. You got any thoughts on the boy?”

“I hadn’t… well, perhaps as a middle name, there’s always Stephen?”

Angie smiles, hand over her heart. 

“I like that. I like that a whole lot. And it doesn’t have to be the middle.”

***

“Honey,” Peggy whispers, delighting in the Americanism. “I’m home.”

Angie’s reply is an unceremonious grunt from somewhere in the middle of the bed. Peggy slips off the last of her work clothing, her tights, and slips beneath the sheets in her camisole and knickers. She plumps her pillow gently and then leans across to kiss Angie sweetly on the lips. Any further intentions are interrupted by the wriggling between them.

“Hello, little ones,” Peggy sighs. She can’t exactly start another debate on the merits of co-sleeping when she’s been in Hungary these past six nights. Truthfully, she’s looking forward to their grasping little cuddles almost as much as wrapping herself around Angie at some point very soon. “You get five minutes, for mummy to tell you all about the delights of Budapest, then it’s off to the crib with you.”

“Peg,” Angie sleep-whines. “Comfy.”

They are, Peggy has to admit. Diana, already the hunter of her name, has sought out Peggy’s new heat and comfort quicker than her brother, burrowing against Peggy’s ribs and grasping with tiny fingers at the satin of her camisole. 

“Well, to hell with the rules tonight,” Peggy relents. “But I’ll expect breakfast in bed to make up for all these extra people I’m sharing with. One day, babies, you’ll be taught how to make a proper cup of tea. It’s taken me well over a year with Mommy, and she still needs guidance now and then.”

“Sleep,” Angie grunts, in danger of waking fully. Peggy smiles and quiets herself, patting each of the children and Angie in turn. It’s a reassurance for them that she’s really back, but even more so for herself. Every time a risk presents itself now she has that extra second, or three, of hesitation. Three reasons not to sacrifice herself for Queen and country, or its closest ally.

“Sleep,” Peggy agrees under her breath a moment later. She wants to stay awake and savor this rare moment of peace, but the long hours in a cargo plane have left her weary and the darkness is pulling her down with every half-hearted blink. “I love you,” she mutters just before sleep takes her, and she likes to think the responding three sighs come in unison. If this is coming in from the cold, Peggy thinks as the swirls of her dreams begin to form, then she is finally content to be warm.


End file.
